Trick Or Treat
by leiascully
Summary: Eric Foreman had never hated his job so much.


Eric Foreman had never hated his job so much. Chase was doing the crossword, the end of the pen between his lips. Chase was doing the goddamn crossword again, in ink, even though it was the Friday crossword and he was bound to screw up at least three of the clues and try to fix them by scribbling over letters and writing smaller ones in the corners of the boxes, and Foreman would never be able to finish it because of the blotches. Cameron was reading out some idiotic form letter from the ASPCA - she'd donated in House's name last Christmas when he had threatened to fire her if she gave him any more gifts, and they just kept sending photos of sad eyed puppies and kittens that made Cameron go limpid and useless for the rest of the day.

House himself was in the other room, playing the nth level of whatever inane game Adam had left with him. The bleeping noises trickled in through the open door. Every now and again House would chuckle to himself or hiss through his teeth. Foreman was getting twitchy and it wasn't just the shitty coffee.

"Ooooh," said Cameron, sagging in her chair, her mouth all pouty. "Look at this little guy. Isn't he so cute?" She pushed a photo of a puppy under Foreman's nose.

"Oh my God!" he exploded. "We are doctors! Are we ever going to practice medicine?"

Chase didn't even look up. "What's a seven-letter word for 'foolish'?"

Foreman ripped the newspaper out of Chase's hands. "You jackass."

"Can I at least have the comics?" Chase said mildly, his eyes very puzzled. He had put the wrong end of the pen in his mouth and he had ink on his lip.

"I cannot believe they gave either of you degrees in medicine," Foreman said, hands on his hips, the ripped newspaper crumpled in his fist. "When was the last time either of you actually did any doctor work?"

"I pulled a shift in the clinic this morning," Chase said. "Had to trach a kid. Stuffy nose. Not getting enough air."

Foreman threw the wadded newspaper across the room and knocked over the whiteboard. "You trached a kid for having a cold?"

"Foreman, it was a joke," said Chase, making a great show of patience. "I didn't even tube him. I gave him some cold medicine. I can't afford to screw up any more."

"I'm not allowed to practice until I go through a peer review," Cameron chirped. "You know, because of the Powell case where I maybe killed a guy and that skin biopsy I botched. Nurse Previn reported me for negligence."

"You make me sick," Foreman told her. Chase still had ink all over his mouth. Foreman was starting to hope ballpoint ink was intensely poisonous.

"You know," said House, limping in and leaning against the doorframe, "irrational rage is one of the symptoms of irreversible amoebic brain damage."

Foreman raised his chin defiantly. "I'm just trying to point out that we barely even practice anymore. Aside from your pointless cases. Autism, seriously. Everyone's a psychologist in this damn hospital."

"We've got a better average than Wilson," said House, pointing his cane at the oncologist, who was walking in the other door.

"Pardon?" said Wilson.

"When was the last time you saw a patient?"

"Personally or professionally?" Wilson quipped. "You know, maybe if there were actually doctors working under me, the oncology department would get more done. Or if Jersey contained more carcinogens. But Cuddy doesn't see patients either."

"I have a hospital to run," Cuddy protested, clicking her way into the room. The lapels of her labcoat against a pink blouse showcased an impressive amount of cleavage. Foreman thought she must have bribed the dry cleaner: the coat looked unnaturally white. "And anyway, I saw a patient. Once. Twice. Definitely at least three patients in the last three years. House almost killed one of them."

"That was a good night," House said mistily. "The girls were on display. The scent of cigar smoke was in the air. The Dean of Medicine was getting tipsy and ignoring her only patient, who was bleeding heavily."

"Yeah, as if you've never gotten drunk instead of seeing a patient. I seem to recall you getting drunk while seeing a patient, in fact." She snorted. "One of these days I will fire your ass."

"Well," said House, "at least then we'll be able to sleep together like everyone thinks we already have." He waggled his eyebrows at her and she arched her own eyebrow at him.

"You wish. I'm interested in babies these days, not sex."

Foreman slumped into his chair and let his head drop to the table. "This is a nightmare."

"You know," Wilson said, edging up to Cuddy, "I like kids."

She looked him over and smiled sweetly. "I don't think so. You think it's only professionalism that keeps us from sharing a bed?"

"I am in Hell," Foreman announced, his voice distorted a little by the fact that his mouth was against the glass of the table.

"I really think this is more like Purgatory," said Chase. "Reliving our sins. How about that time I kissed a nine year old? Or the time I slept with Cameron even though she was high and couldn't really consent?"

"Man, meth will fuck you up," said Cameron, shaking her head slowly. "The sex was good, but the hangover was just not worth it. I can't listen to Goldfrapp anymore either."

"You shouldn't be listening to Goldfrapp in the first place," said House. "What did I tell you about shitty music?"

"Hell," said Foreman a little more loudly, lifting his head and letting it thump back down against the glass. "How many years of school? How many thousands of dollars of loans? And I end up here? You people are all insane."

"Maybe you fucked up in a past life," offered Cuddy unsympathetically. "Hey, remember that time I taunted you about being head of the department? Those were good days. For me. Maybe not for you."

"Foreman," said House, sudden and sharp. "Let's do the Hokey Pokey. Put your left foot in."

Foreman moved his foot, and Wilson gasped. "That's not your left foot! Your left/right reversal is back!"

"Brother," House said solemnly, "this is the day when our sins come back to haunt us. Amen."

"Shit," said Chase under his breath. "There goes my dissolute life. It's been all downhill since seminary."

"We all understand my sins," said Wilson. "And Cameron's possible sins, I guess, and House's, and Chase's, and Foreman, sticking your colleague with a tainted needle really was a dick move. So Cuddy, confessions?"

She smiled, very smug. "I have no sins, except lying to my mother. And since that's practically a requirement for being an adolescent, I think I'm clean."

"Immaculate, one might say?" suggested House. "No wonder you're trying to have a kid."

Cuddy sneered at him. "If you think this is Purgatory, you're going to love pulling double hours in the clinic for the next year."

"No problem," said House. "I'll just make Foreman do it." Foreman dragged his head up from the table and gave House his most penetrating glare, but House grinned in a way that made Foreman think of sinister jack-o-lanterns. Foreman started to shake his head, but Cuddy had already begun to shout that no, House wouldn't either, or else his addicted ass was grass.

"Baby. Baby, wake up." Foreman was being shaken. He opened his eyes to see his girlfriend looking at him, her forehead pulled together with worry. "You were screaming. Something about double hours, and Cuddy giving birth to the new Jesus? Are you okay?"

"Bad sushi," said Foreman, propping himself up on arms that were shaking. "Hey, could you wake me up for church in the morning? I think I've got some praying to do."


End file.
